Move him into the sun–
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unseen.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?–Wilfred Owen, “Futility,” May 1918
*
It has never been worse than this. The last time I wrote of Palestine, in February 2024, the invasion of Rafah—Joe Biden’s supposed red line—had just begun. Since then, the IDF has obliterated the ancient city, along with most of the rest of Gaza. Tens of thousands of Palestinians have been confirmed killed—by Israeli bombs, bullets, and starvation—though the true number is, in all likelihood, far higher. The long-threatened famine is here. Hundreds have already died of starvation. More than a thousand people have been gunned down while queuing for food at Gaza Humanitarian Foundation “aid” sites. The West Bank, without even the pretext of a Hamas presence, is under a state of dual siege. The IDF executes a relentless campaign of urban destruction, kidnapping, and murder, while a juiced-up army of settlers spreads terror among the Palestinian population, vandalizing, looting, burning, and lynching, safe in the knowledge that the police, army and courts are on their side.
In the last two decades the conviction rate for incidents of settler violence was a paltry 3%, according to Israeli human rights NGO Yesh Din. Since far right settler and Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich took personal command of West Bank governance, the situation has become yet worse. Two years of relentless violence have stripped the artifice from the Israeli political system. Seemingly every day brings another pronouncement, each one gobsmacking in its genocidal intent, from a politician quoting Hitler as a model for what should be done, to Smotrich’s repeated demands for ethnic cleansing and settlement of Gaza. Now, in preparation for a ground invasion, Israel rains yet more American bombs on Gaza City—another round of mindless, brutal violence against a population that has endured it every day for almost two years.
Horror of this scale has the effect of deadening words, making stories of the most unimaginable violence land with a dull thud. We are used to it, even as new levels of depravity are uncovered on a weekly basis. I have seen every one of the most obscene images of violence of my life in the last two years. As teenagers we would stumble upon images like this very occasionally. Moments of surreal and genuine violence, usually culled from video nasties like Faces of Death, old VHS transfers of 35mm film further pixelated into short animated GIFs. Now, new high-fidelity snuff films are created daily, and we see them in our Instagram feeds next to pictures of holidays and ads for Volvos. Ash and fire and endless grey dusty death. Not that it’s anywhere near the most important thing to think about, but this daily bombardment of images of death is having a devastating psychological effect on everyone who experiences it.
As a lifelong agnostic, I find more kinship among people of faith who oppose this war than fellow non-believers who stay silent.
All of this has been said before, and yet it’s worth saying again. The deliberate policy of the Israeli government is to flood the world with so many crimes that it becomes impossible to hold on to any one image or report for any length of time. As Nemick says in the first series of Andor, it’s easier to hide behind forty atrocities than one single incident. (A couple of years ago, I might have been embarrassed to quote a Star Wars character; nowadays I find I don’t much care where I get my encouragement from. Why be embarrassed about anything else, when the whole world is party to an obscenity that shames us all?)
The last two years have been clarifying, and not only in unpleasant ways. I feel an immense sense of kinship when I see some visible act of solidarity for Palestine, no matter how minor. At a check up this month, my doctor wore a keffiyeh pin, and I had a glimpse of what it might have been like to be an abolitionist in the early 19th century, seeing someone else wearing a badge that said, “Am I not a man and a brother?” The left is notoriously fond of factionalism and infighting and yet I feel absolutely no desire to rehash old battles now. What do I care if someone is a social democrat or a communist, an anarchist or a left liberal, if they are willing to stand with me on this, the moral crisis of our lifetimes? Friends I haven’t spoken to in years share the same horror, reach out for a quick word. I feel as if we are part of something greater than ourselves.
Many of the old certainties that I felt in earlier years have faded away. As a lifelong agnostic, I find more kinship among people of faith who oppose this war than fellow non-believers who stay silent. There is even some solace to be found in religious texts, even if I can’t quite get myself to believe them. Not a man ordinarily given to quoting the bible, I found myself struck by a colleague’s deeply moving presentation on a verse from, of all things, the Old Testament. This document, so often a justification for violence, also contains words of reconciliation, of fortitude and healing.
“…and people will call you Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets to Live in.”
–Isaiah 58:12
I have seen commentary from the more tedious sections of the British political system wondering indignantly how Palestine became such an important issue, lamenting people’s relative lack of fervour for more quotidian domestic problems that “actually affect them.” These politicians are missing the point spectacularly. This attempted destruction of the Palestinian people is the defining moral issue of the early 21st century precisely because it is being done in our names. It is a demand to kneel in the face of brutal, arbitrary power, lest it be turned against you next. If it is not refused, if it is not defeated, or at least battled to a standstill, I do not wish to contemplate what comes after.
Western leaders are no longer merely ruling the void; they are ruling a moral abyss: using the withered consent of their populations to facilitate Israel’s genocide.
This crisis has shown us which world leaders will not only consent to this genocide, but brutally discipline their populations for having the gall to question it. The mass mobilizations for Palestine have been among the largest in history. They have also, so far, been largely ineffective in exerting power. That is no slight whatsoever on the activists, among whose ranks I’d count myself, for whatever minor amount I’ve done. It is merely an acknowledgment of the immense democratic chasm in the world of 2025: little that we do or say seems to have any effect on the actions of our governments. It’s also to acknowledge the incredible social, economic, and physical violence meted out against those opposing this slaughter. In country after country, we’ve seen the full repressive apparatus of the state deployed to ruin the lives of anyone who dares to speak out.
Almost 20 years ago, the Irish political scientist Peter Mair coined the phrase “ruling the void” to describe the creation in the West of a democracy stripped of its demos, the removal of democratic control over vital economic and political functions, alongside the encouragement of mass indifference among the general population while power continues to be exercised in their name. Western leaders are no longer merely ruling the void; they are ruling a moral abyss: using the withered consent of their populations to facilitate Israel’s genocide.
The justifications for the slaughter which started out so white hot after October 7th have cooled now, become more immaterial and incoherent. The hostages are used only as the bluntest tool. They are endlessly invoked against anyone seeking a ceasefire, and even their families are excised from the popular discourse if they threaten the needs of the Israeli government. The many thousands of Palestinians (including children) held hostage in Israeli jails and internment camps are, of course, not a consideration whatsoever. Listen to Israeli politicians, ambassadors, online influencers, and broadcast journalists and you’ll hear the same phrases repeated ad nauseam. Hamas must surrender. Israel does not commit war crimes. Hamas steals aid. The UN refuses to distribute aid. The IDF only fires warning shots at civilians. The people you see wasting away were sick or disabled anyway. Those videos are fake. Do you condemn Hamas? Why aren’t you out marching against Hamas? This criticism, that criticism, all criticism of Israel is anti-semitism.
If there seems to be no moral consistency to any of this, that’s because there isn’t. The goal is not to convince you, but to muddy the waters, and make you switch off. Failing that, to batter you into submission, to convince you that Israel’s power and control is so great that it cannot be faced, and must only be endorsed or endured.
And yet, I cannot give up the hope that gradually, things are changing. The hollowing out of democracy in the West is profound, but it is surely not yet at the point where leaders can wholly ignore the wishes of their constituents. Across Europe’s largest countries, fewer than a fifth of people hold a favourable opinion of Israel. The comments section of the New York Times, once the natural home of blithe, unexamined liberal Zionism, now abounds with people calling for a total suspension of military aid and diplomatic cover.
It’s easy to feel powerless and alone, bombarded by so much indifference from those who do not care and sick glee from those who approve. But most people, when presented with images of immense and deliberately inflicted human suffering, have a human response. They are revolted by it. They want it to stop. The question is not opinion, but salience. How can we transform the issue from being one in which people feel passive but powerless opposition, to one where people are activated and connected to institutions that can use their work? How can we mobilize people in sufficient numbers, and effective ways, as to be impossible to ignore? How can we make it clear to our political class that this is non-negotiable and that those who facilitate it will be held accountable, in the ballot booth and perhaps the courtroom too. How can we bring pressure on Israel that is not only moral, but backed by real political and economic force?
As in South Africa in the 1980s, the goal must be to bring some critical mass of Israelis to the table through moral, economic, and political force.
Because the notion that we are powerless, that there is nothing that we can do, is pessimism that the powerful in both Israel and the U.S. would love to encourage. If there is nothing that can be done to stop them, then there is no limit to what Israel can do. But there are limits, and there are tools at our disposal. Israel is not immune to pressure. They are sustained by military aid and sales from the US and Europe, but they also have an economy that is deeply integrated into that of the world. This is not some autarkist hermit kingdom; it is a modern state reliant on foreign investment and trade, a state whose non-Palestinian citizens are accustomed to a high standard of living, and the freedom to travel worldwide, frequently visa-free.
As a pseudo-European nation on the periphery of the continent, Israel is linked to many European organizations in sectors ranging from tech to finance, education to entertainment. There are pressure points everywhere, if governments can be forced to use them. It will require creativity, flexibility, and a great deal of humility, but it can be done, if the international movement for Palestine goes on the offensive.
This slaughter must end, this occupation must end. And until it does, we need economic sanctions on the entire state of Israel, not merely the settler movements of the occupied territories. Arms sales, even of so-called “defensive” weapons, must be cancelled in both directions. This point is even being argued by some in the (admittedly small) Israeli left. As in South Africa in the 1980s, the goal must be to bring some critical mass of Israelis to the table through moral, economic, and political force. Some will experience that genuine psychic break with Zionism that many white South Africans did with their country’s system of oppression. Some will move cynically, making the calculation that accommodation with the Palestinian population is preferable to being a permanent international pariah. Both groups will be necessary.
Those responsible for or participating in war crimes must be investigated and charged, including those Western consultants and mercenaries who have enabled the bread massacres in the guise of the “Gaza Humanitarian Foundation.” Driven by intense organizing from the Hind Rajab Foundation and the Global Legal Action Network, Belgium recently detained and interrogated two IDF soldiers accused of war crimes, the first such case in Europe. Ireland is inching closer to banning trade with the occupied territories, and the cross-party parliamentary committee is pushing back against government attempts to water it down.
A raft of supporters of Israel, like the UK, Australia, and Canada, in an attempt to assuage their increasingly pro-Palestinian population, have promised to recognize a Palestinian state this month. A failure to meaningfully sanction Israel appears to have finished off the Dutch coalition government. Slovenia became the first European country to declare a total arms embargo on Israel. In itself this will have little impact, but it is a crack in the dam. It may be that Israel has finally overextended itself. There are signs of frustration with Israel among some EU states which have up to this point cosigned their actions. The French, the Dutch, even the Germans appear to be running out of patience, or fearing electoral backlash. Either way, the lonely corners of Europe that dared to question Israeli policy—Spain, Ireland, Belgium, Slovenia, Norway—look likely to acquire a few new allies. Outside of Europe, the newly formed Hague Group of nations aims to put some institutional heft behind the global movement.
Slowly, haltingly, we move forward. It is, needless to say, maddening to watch powerful people who endorsed this for two years suddenly have a road-to-Damascus moment. Many of these, especially the most senior politicians and media figures, are doing so in a cynical attempt to avoid holding the bag when the very worst details from inside Gaza finally emerge. Some are partially genuine, experiencing a gradual erosion of long-held Zionism that simply cannot withstand the mounting horror. You are under no obligation to enthusiastically welcome the powerful into a coalition, but we may have to grit our teeth and be patient with ordinary people as they look for a way to assuage their conscience.
In late July, centrist independent US Senator Angus King released a startlingly angry statement. Notwithstanding the usual throat clearing, he concluded by saying, “For these reasons, I am through supporting the actions of the current Israeli government and will advocate—and vote—for an end to any United States support whatsoever until there is a demonstrable change in the direction of Israeli policy.” The statement is interesting both in that it comes from someone not on the left, but also appears to skip several expected steps in the ladder of escalation. The promise is not to sanction a handful of settlers, symbolically recognize a Palestinian state, or even to merely restrict arms sales, but to vote for an end to any US support whatsoever if there is no change. Sometimes when people break, they break hard. Those who have long felt secure in the bipartisan underwriting of Israel’s many crimes may yet feel the ground move under their feet.
I know many activists feel burnt out and broken now, ground down by defeat, despair and repression . . . But in this struggle we may too be remade as something better than we are now.
The movement builds strength, but the killing continues. So where to look for strength in the meantime? Of all places, the American Civil War is where I have been finding some hope, looking for the ways in which seemingly unassailable systems can be fought. Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., wounded three times as a Union soldier, recalled that his generation was one whose “hearts were touched with fire.” The war was fought with modern weapons and, at least initially, pre-modern tactics. The resultant casualty levels were stunning. The slaughter at Antietam, Shiloh, and Gettysburg was a taste of what the 20th century would bring. Unlike the First World War, which started for no good reason and was fought for even less, the American Civil War was understood by the most clear eyed Unionists and Confederates to be, from the outset, something titanic and consequential. Even for those in the North who didn’t care a damn for the four million held in brutal bondage, or those who wanted a soft, conciliatory approach, the war began to take on new and moral meaning.
On a thousand small town New England greens,
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.
–Robert Lowell, For the Union Dead, 1960
Lincoln is the clearest example of this transformation. Before the war he had been a radical Whig, then a moderate Republican, with relatively humane but unmistakably blinkered and racist mid-19th century liberal views. He was, above all, a believer in the essential goodness and necessity of the United States, a belief that lent him the steel to stand up to the South when they dared him. The experience of secession, of war, of industrial slaughter and gallant sacrifice, of Black soldiery and humanity all reforged Lincoln into a stronger alloy. By war’s end he was not only convinced of the moral rightness of Black suffrage and civil rights, but of their essential necessity and urgency. As Karl Marx wrote to Lincoln in 1864, “If resistance to the Slave Power was the reserved watchword of your first election, the triumphant war cry of your re-election is Death to Slavery.”
Holmes and his generation had “seen with our own eyes, beyond and above the gold fields, the snowy heights of honor.” Their duty was simply to “bear the report to those who come after us.” For a time the American Civil War made hard-bitten soldiers of soft-handed Northern lawyers and merchants, moral giants of former slavery apologists, and heroes of people thought good enough only for the scrapheap. Ulysses S. Grant was a reluctant soldier, a failed businessman, and a bad farmer. He was drummed out of the army for his drinking, and only recalled because the supposed best and brightest military minds had deserted to the Confederacy. His failures did not paralyze him: they freed him. Freed him from ego, from fear, from the inability or unwillingness to act that characterized the early Union generals. I know many activists feel burnt out and broken now, ground down by defeat, despair and repression, by the real consequences they have experienced and the sheer obscenity of the crimes being committed. But in this struggle we may too be remade as something better than we are now.
A ghost that haunts the contemporary left is the feeling that we are, in some fundamental way, unworthy of the legacy of our ancestors. That those women and men who died to end slavery, to win basic rights, to win the vote, to dethrone monarchs and destroy the ancien régime, to fight Czarism and fascism and Nazism and imperialism and apartheid, were in some way our moral betters. They were braver, they were smarter, they could endure more and keep faith longer. They were not afraid to fail, to lose, to suffer and to perish for these ideals. They believed in something better to be built, while we only fear that worse is yet to come. But these people were merely people, just as we are. They did not start out their lives brave, or strong, or fearless. They were transformed by their struggles. They found courage in each other, they found strength in their work. Their fear was never banished, only mastered.
Radicals around the world rejoiced at Lincoln and his Grand Army of the Republic, the Emancipation Proclamation, the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments. Slaves, serfs, peasants, and wage workers mostly understood that what was being struck was a hammer blow on their behalf. The liberation of the Palestinian people would not be the end of something, but the beginning.
How do things change? First slowly, then all at once. Weeks and decades, decades and weeks. We outside of Palestine do not have the luxury of despair. We must keep the faith even when hope seems faint. We must remember that all empires fall eventually. No oppression lasts forever. If we were to do nothing useful for the rest of our days save to hasten the arrival of a free and democratic Palestine, with equal rights for all, ours would be lives worth living.
But grief is not the end of all. I seem to hear the funeral march become a paean. I see beyond the forest the moving banners of a hidden column. Our dead brothers still live for us, and bid us think of life, not death—of life to which in their youth they lent the passion and joy of the spring. As I listen, the great chorus of life and joy begins again, and amid the awful orchestra of seen and unseen powers and destinies of good and evil our trumpets sound once more a note of daring, hope, and will.
–Oliver Wendell Holmes, (1884)
________________________
You can read more from Jack Sheehan here (where this essay originally appeared).
